“Hi, Katlyn,” I say before I’mrudelyinterrupted.
Lawrence clears his throat. “This is Rowan Davies. He’s checking in.”
Apparently, I can’t speak for myself.
She glances from him to me like she’s thinking the same thing, her eyes dipping to the computer screen in front of her, fingernails tapping on the keyboard. “Okay, yes, here you are. So, since it’s so late, I can go ahead and get you checked into your room, and Lawrence can give you a brief tour of the place, but the actual intake will have to be tomorrow morning. Our intake specialists and the regular therapists and general physicians are only here during the day.”
Glancing over at Lawrence—for what, I’m not sure—I nod. “Um, okay. Sounds good.”
Katlyn gets to typing vigorously again, silence descending upon the three of us. The lobby is completely clear of anyone else. She takes my photo ID, asks me a few questions, and then gives me a wristband that apparently acts as an entry card of sorts. It’ll unlock my room and give me access to the health center and a few other facilities. Most buildings, Katlyn tells me, require wristbands to be scanned before we can go in, and it’ll deny access if it’s outside of my restrictions.
She informs me of the ten p.m. enforced curfew, and the fact that there is a cellular and internet block on this side of the island. We get to keep our phones, but we can’t use them for anything other than pictures and music. I’d imagine there isn’t such a restriction on the resort side, but I don’t bother asking. Exploring and spending time outside is allowed—and encouraged—but we all must be inside the facilities by ten p.m. After going over some brief housekeeping items, she sends us on our way.
Lawrence leads me around the main building, pointing out where everything is, including where I can find a map, should I forget all of this by morning. Which is a big possibility. Afterward, he takes me outside, showing me how to get to my building. The resident buildings surround the main one. I’m in the building farthest from the main part.
As we step inside and get on the elevator, a question hits me that I haven’t asked yet. “Do I have to share a room?”
Please say no. Please say fucking no. I swear to God if I have to have a roommate, I’m rioting.
“No, Rowan, you do not have to share a room.” His tone suggests my question was stupid, but it seems like a valid one to me. “Do you really think we charge thousands of dollarsper dayin fees for us to turn around and force our residents into sharing living spaces like this is some college dormitory?”
Holding my hands up, I say, “Well, I don’t know. Shit. I have to live in this fucking knock-off style hotel, so who knows?” We get off the elevator and take a left. It really does look like a hotel in here. “You’re kind of bitchy, you know.” I blurt out, winning me a chilling side-eye.
“I am notbitchy.”
“If you say so.” I laugh.
Lawrence comes to a full stop in front of a closed door, and I lift the wristband to the reader. The light turns green, and we hear a soft clicking sound, indicating the door is now unlocked.
“Alright, this is your room,” Lawrence announces, but doesn’t enter with me. “Remember, housekeeping comes every other day, and if you need anything in between, you can dial zero on the phone by your bed. Be downstairs at ten in the morning, and I’ll take you to intake. Do you have any questions?”
I shake my head, wanting to be a smartass, but I’m too tired to even think of anything. Once I’m in the room by myself, I take the world’s quickest shower—noting how fucking nice the bathroom is—before passing out.
CHAPTERFOUR
Caspian
“You either go or you’re out. It’s one or the other, Gray. I’m tired of this shit. The band’s tired of this shit. Get help. Get clean. Or you’re gone.”
Lying in this bed, staring up at the ceiling, I replay the conversation I had barely twenty-four hours ago. The one that was forced upon me intervention style after my fucking prick of a manager picked me up from the station. The one where he, all four of my bandmates, and Bex all sat in a circle, telling me how fucking worried they are for me. How I could’ve died. How someonediddie. Like I’m somehow responsible for that girl and what she did.The choiceshemade.
I’m not her fucking babysitter. I’m not her boyfriend. I’m a fucking drummer in a famous rock band. Sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll. What the fuck do they expect? If they are looking for morality and good choices, they’re looking in the wrong fucking place.
It’s fucking bullshit that I’m even where I am right now. The fucking ultimatum they gave me, as if I haven’t been with them from the fucking ground up. I’ve been with this band long before we were Wicked Hearts. Long before platinum albums and world tours and fans. And they’re going to kickmeout? Fuck that.
Fuck that and fuck them.
Turning my head to the left, face still pressed into the pillow, my eyes find the blaring red numbers on the digital clock sitting on the nightstand. It tells me it’s much too fucking late for me to still be up—I’ve been awake for almost two days—but one quick peek through the curtains that aren’t quite closed lets me know a new day has begun.
I don’t know exactly where I am, nor what the time difference is from here and Los Angeles. I know the facility is Black Diamond, but I don’t have a fucking clue what part of the world it’s in. Probably something I should’ve asked at some point between being all but forcefully shoved onto the private plane and checking into this place.
Digging the heel of my palm into my eye socket, I blow out a breath before climbing out of this bed that isn’t mine. Well, I guess it is now—at least for the next ninety days. Pulling open the French doors that lead to the private balcony, I step out, the warm saltwater breeze gliding over me. This room isn’t right facing the water, but I can see it from here, and it’s turquoise color is something straight out of a photograph.
There’re a couple of large wicker chairs out here, along with a circular table. Sitting down in one of the chairs, my palms rub up and down my thighs. I wish I had a fucking cigarette. They confiscated everything I had on me—a pack of smokes, two lighters, a container of pre-rolled joints, and a half empty bottle of Adderall. Fucking took it all. Bet some punk employee is really enjoying my stash right about now.
I have to go downstairs in a couple of hours to do intake. That’s about the last thing I want to do. Have a bunch of doctors and specialists poke and prod me, while they ask personal fucking questions and make a judgement on me based on my answers.Yay.They don’t fucking know me, and they never fucking will.
I’ve talked to shrinks before. Never fucking helped. It’s nothing but a waste of time and money. But apparently, those who think they are in control of my life and my goddamn well-being seem to think I need it. So, I just gotta bide my time here, do the shit I’m supposed to do, so I can get out, and go on the international tour with the band.
